Paris Champagne
by muahaha1524
Summary: Sherlolly smut :) NOT explicit, just sensative Enjoy! Read and Review Sherlock and Molly are in Paris


**I don't own any Sherlock characters. No infringement intended. Please read and review!**

Molly and Sherlock were on a case. They had gone on a lot of cases after he came back from the Fall, and John moved in with Mary, they had spent a lot of time together since Sherlock's usual companion was often preoccupied.

This time, a case brought them to travel, bringing the pair to the extravagant, beautiful city of Paris. However, they could only manage to stay at a cheap motel crawling with cockroaches, _much_ to Molly's horror.

Mycroft's name allowed them access to a high-class party that was being held underneath the Eiffel Tower. It was an engagement party for a couple with high positions in the government. There would be more than 600 people there, and it was unnecessarily formal.

Molly slipped into the dress Mycroft and Anthea had sent to her for the case, since there was going to be a murder at the party, and getting in was crucial. Because Molly didn't have any fancy clothes, the assistance was well appreciated.

Looking in the mirror, she had never looked so wonderful in her life. It was a blue, icy blue, with satin sleeves that fit her arms in a snug way. The torso seemed as if it were covered with several large, blooming ice crystals that glistened and sparkled brilliantly in the light of the cheap lamp by the door. The satin, crystalline material flowed down her hips and accentuated them gorgeously. Despite the fact the dress was so heavy, Molly loved it.

Her shoes were glassy and smooth, but just as tall as she could manage. They fit perfectly, and added a few inches to her shorter stature. Her hair had been done by a stylist about an hour before, and it was flawlessly braided into two separate braids that were pinned up like a headband. Her mother used to do her hair like this when she was a schoolgirl, and she requested it when the stylist asked for preferences.

Another wow factor to her godess-like look was that she had never worn so much make-up and had it look so natural and even. Her eyes were topped with deep, thick blue eyeliner that swung off her eyelids, curling up modestly before fading into her skin, so it seemed. Above the detail was an icy-colored sparkling eye shadow that was evenly and symmetrically spread over her lids without the tiniest notice of clumping or nonconformity. Her cheeks glowed a pinkish hue, her lips looked plumper and glossy with a similar shade of pink, and there was not a blemish on her face.

Smiling at herself, she marveled at her clean white teeth as Sherlock's knock brought her back from her dreamworld.

Molly glided to the door and opened it with more gracefulness than she had ever possessed in her life.

The door swung open, revealing Sherlock in a jet black, iron pressed suit that was form-fitting and expensive looking. His hair was gelled back, to her surprise (he never did that sort of thing, but then again, she never did this sort of thing either). And the best part of it was the icy blue tie that matched her dress. Oh, Mycroft was sneaky sometimes. Her face hit a redish hue and it wasnt from the make-up.

"Hi." Molly said, breaking the silence. But when she spoke, Sherlock did not respond. His eyes were almost shamelessly scanning her body from head to toe with a shocked expression. She had never seen him act like this to anyone before, much less her. To break the tension, she cleared her throat.

This seemed to snap him out of it, because he jumped and brought his eyes back to her face.

"Yes, Molly, hello. Ready? I assume you are, I don't see why you wouldn't be." he answered smoothly, but she could almost hear a stumble. Sherlock smiled genuinely and offered an arm.

Together they strode out into a cab and slid in, neither speaking on the way to the event, which could be spotted from blocks away.

There were lights, and streamers, and thick lavender rugs, and lanterns, tables, people, and the Eiffel Tower was glowing a magnificent golden color from above, shining down on the attendees.

Sherlock formally got out of the cab and offered his hand to Molly. It wasn't a gesture she had expected, but she assumed it was appropriate for such a high-end get-together.

"Where do you presume the murderer is?" Molly asked quietly, getting down to business. As hard as it was to say no, they weren't here for the champagne.

"Not entirely sure, but he's a respected guest, valued by the happy couple. He'll be around people, unfortunately, but not standing alone. We shouldn't search right away, we need to come on slowly."

With that, they ushered themselves over to a table with tall, thin, fragile looking glasses. Immediately they were offered one. Molly took a cautious sip, not knowing what it was, and found that it was sweet and cold, refreshing.

Fifteen minutes, half an hour, an hour, the time slipped away from them as they talked with each other and other guests. For some reason, Molly found that her self confidence was so high she didn't stutter or slip or anything, words flowed from her mouth without fear of judgement, and she liked this social butterfly emerging from her. it was satisfying.

"Sherlock," Molly started, setting down the glass she had responsibly sipped on since they arrived. Sherlock had just started a second.

"Yes, Molly?"

"Shouldn't we look for the suspect?"

"Oh yes. Well, I've already gotten what I came for."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Molly curiously prodded, unsure what he meant.

"You see, there isn't actually a murderer here." He said, setting down his glass with sudden disinterest. "I lead you here saying it was a case. I really just wanted to see you open up. I knew if we came to this party you would have to be so formal, and I therefore concluded it boost your self esteem, finally allowing you to speak without fear of judgement."

Molly stood still, poised with her champagne glass in her hand.

"You brought me to Paris, and to the classiest party you could find, just to see me be socially outgoing one time for one night?" she clarified.

"Yes." Sherlock answered firmly.

The carbonated contents of Molly's beverage took no time in covering Sherlock's head and shoulder area, soaking into his suit and plastering his hair to his head in a kicked-puppy kind of way.

"Oh my God! I'm sorry, I didn't-" Molly couldn't keep talking with the hurt looked he was giving her. She felt sickeningly guilty and even worse when she realized nearby guests were staring at her outlandishly.

She gently placed the glass on the closest table and and grabbed a cloth napkin, dipping it in water before bringing it to Sherlock's shoulders.

"I'm so sorry, I-I d-didn't mean to,"

"No, Molly, _please_ don't stutter, I don't want you too." he begged, not seeming phased by the sticky state of himself. "But, I have to admit, I wanted to dance before we left." he added meekly, almost under his breath.

Molly had never really been faced with him like this before, and she didn't really know what to do. When she met him, five years ago, twenty-eight-year-old fresh-out-of-graduate-school where she had been working for ages to get a job like the one she landed at St. Bart's. Molly fell in love instantly, realizing after sixteen failed attempts to get him out on a date that he would never look at her twice. Now, the tables had turned and she hadn't thought they ever would.

"Come on." She said bravely, fighting for her confidence back. "Let's go back to the motel."

Together, they left the party and cabbed back.

Without asking, Molly followed Sherlock into his room, trying to undo that crusted knot of his tie. He stood by the bed and let her do it without complaint. She finally worked the tie off and dropped it to the ground, unbuttoning his jacket and waist coat, so forth until he remained only in trousers and a shirt.

"Do you want me to go now?" Molly asked modestly.

"No." Sherlock groaned in his heavenly, deep voice. The sound of it seemed to plummet to Molly's midsection, and she couldn't help but feel slightly hot and bothered by it.

She fought back a blush and nimbly set to work undoing the button to his shirt slowly. The fabric wasn't effected by champagne, so it smelt and felt clean and fresh, like Sherlock. For a moment, she lost herself and leaned forward, pressing her nose to his neck, breathing in the watermelon, cinnamon, and smell only Sherlock smelt like.

Catching herself, Molly pulled back and yanked off his white shirt, leaving his chest bare. She didn't yet feel the courage to unzip his trousers, so she let her hands slide up to his hair, working through the drink and gel, getting through the roughness of it and returning it to its former glory, curly in a cutely disheveled way.

It looked more like him now, and she brought her hands back down to his waist, but she hitched her breath and froze.

The long pregnant pause lead Sherlock to place his hands on hers, guiding them to his waistline. Molly bit her lip in a heated way, and breathing heavily, she removed them.

Sherlock stepped out of them and pulled her closer to him, letting his hands slide over to her shoulders and back, pulling at the zipper and gently unzipping, down to the small of her back where it ended. She let him slide it off her shoulders and let it fall to the ground.

No words were said as Sherlock grabbed both Molly's wrists and walked backwards into the bathroom, turning on the shower and climbing inside, beckoning for her to step in behind him. Molly felt herself heave before taking that small step towards him. The bathtub was slippery, and she tripped.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around her and steadied, her pushing the now soaked hair out of her eyes, pulling out the unnecessary pins, placing them on the shampoo shelf. Her hair flowed down and stuck to her shoulders. Water splattered them, covering their shoulders in beads of hot water.

Molly closed her eyes and relished it, the intimacy of it, but that hardly lasted.

The last straw seemed to be drawn and Sherlock couldn't hold himself back any longer.

He pulled her up against him, bringing her under the water, attacking her lips with his own, capturing them and sliding his tongue inside.

The moment they felt, in that moment, every bit of sexual tension and love for each other spilled out, and the kiss rapidly grew into a passionate, steamy one. Sherlock pressed Molly against the cold tile and tangled one hand in her hair, the other coasting her hip.

Molly sighed and bit Sherlock's lip, burying her hands in his wet, messy hair.

The tension blossomed while they kissed, snogged really, and Sherlock finally turned off the water, pulling a towel off the rack and wrapping it around them, hoping to catch the loose water.

Spinning out of the shower, they stumbled to the bed, falling onto it and pressing their lips back together in hot passion.

The sheets were damp from them but they could hardly care. Sherlock breathed on Molly's neck, allowing him to satisfy the urge to bite it. Molly wrapped her legs around his waist and the pressure in her lower abdomen grew pleasurably. Molly could feel that Sherlock felt likewise.

Her neck ached and she knew it would bruise, but she didn't really care. Sherlock heaved and whispered in her ear, making her blush and smile like a teenage girl. Molly couldn't stop a giggle. He whimpered.

Never in her life did Molly think she would hear a sound like that. Not ever. Sherlock whimpered again, and she knew that her ears didn't deceive her.

It hardly took long before Sherlock's long, thin violinist fingers seemed to pull on her hair, yanking it as hard as he dared, which wasn't very hard.

A few moments later, Sherlock pulled himself up Molly, laying his head on her stomach, kissing it with gestures full of love, sending warm waves through Molly's body.

He was sort of sweaty.

"Molly..." he said softly, his voice cracking from whispering. She ran a hand through his drying, thick hair.

"Yes?" she answered.

"I hope you know.. I mean... Well-er," he stopped and swallowed, fighting for the right words. "I want you to know that I love you."

Molly smiled and laughed sweetly, happily. She felt Sherlock's panting fade and he grinned against her skin.

"And I you, Mr. Holmes." she replied with a tone he had never really heard before. He quickly deduced a few pointers about it. A) it was full of genuine love, like the pent up type being released with joy B) It promised a future C) It was tone of even authority, and did not carry any hints of fear or self discomfort.

Molly readjusted herself and whispered, under her breath, almost to herself.

_I am pleased._


End file.
